Sordid Tales of a Part-Time Hijabi

Slag. Slut. Whore. Harlot. 

Like the drip-drip of my rusty faucet, these words slip-slip from the lips of Godly men, hatred frothing at their mouths,

foul tempered and level-headed men. Men and women who can parrot verse after verse and rap their references, spitting venom, at the loosely hanging coil of black, peeking from underneath my hijab.

My hijab-

is either off or on, like the changes in the weather, like the shifting of the ocean currents, like the days you prefer spaghetti over meatballs; spaghetti with meatballs; meatballs no spaghetti; or just plain spaghetti.

My modesty is measured by the breadth of the orange fabric that covers busty bosoms. It is measured by the ratio of sideburns to the neck.

Like Goliath, my modesty crumbles to dust, as bearded men and disillusioned ladies tell me to hide my promiscuity,

I fire logic and verse; God and Science, yet ignorance prevails. Suddenly masculinity is threatened, the balance of the Universe topples, as I remove my chastity and let unruly black curls grace my offensive shoulders.

Akin to apostasy, I am now westernized. Colonised. Oppressed by pop culture. In shackles bounded by the ropes of Hell itself.

Strangled explanations escape my throat, I stand on a platform for the Oppressor and the Oppressed,

as white men, akhs, and ukhtis pounce upon me.

Devoured by Wolves, religious and agnostic alike. Brethren united in explaining what is the worth of my spaghetti and my meatballs. My ocean currents, my changing seasons, my body-

my body,

my body,

my religion,

my hijab,

my modesty.

That which was once between God and I is now torn into shreds and churned out into sordid tales and vulgar slang.







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